


High

by MoonRiver



Series: Adopted [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Explicit Language, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:35:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home high for the first time at the age of twenty-one, and Mycroft fears he is beginning to lose him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High

Sherlock didn’t know it, but after their threesome he kept seeing the copper. On their third official date they lay together in bed. Greg smelled of wine and cigarettes; somewhere between fucking both Holmes brothers and getting a promotion to D.I. he’d taken up smoking. Mycroft wasn’t sure of it himself. The smell was suffocating and it tended to float around wherever Greg went.

“You’re staring at me like I just grew a third eye,” Greg teased.

A sleepy grin spread across Mycroft’s face.

“Your breath smells,” he admitted.

Mycroft didn’t know it then, but six months from now he himself would start smoking so much he hardly noticed the smells on them.

“Well I could go back to my flat and brush my teeth,” Greg said. Suddenly their lips were touching. “Or I could…”

Before he could protest, Greg’s tongue slipped inside his mouth. Their tongues danced together in a soft, steady, rhythm they had developed over the past few weeks. Mycroft felt his body grow warm, and every slip of Greg’s tongue against his seemed to go straight to his cock. Suddenly he didn’t mind the smell. Suddenly the smell was intoxicating. His entire body felt relaxed, if not from the three glasses of wine he just had then from the hand that landed on his clothed-covered cock.

“Mmm, does that feel good?” Greg murmured.

He moaned as the hand squeezed his cock, but just as he settled into the touch the distant pounding of a fist against the door echoed through the flat.

“Fuck,” Mycroft groaned.

“Leave it,” Greg cooed.

The hand tightened around his shaft and traveled downward. The feeling of Greg’s calloused hands against his sensitive skin sent shivers down his spine. His mind felt fuzzy and on instinct he thrusts into the invading hand.

Then the knock on the door became louder.

“I better get that,” Mycroft sighed.

“Ugh!”

He offered Greg a sympathetic smile as a kiss as he climbed out of bed. Grabbing a pair of pyjama bottoms, he stumbled into the living room. The wine left him feeling just a bit tipsy, and he grasped the doorknob a little harder than normal.

When he saw who was standing on the other side he froze.

“Sherlock?” The name fell out of his mouth, and he stopped breathing.

Sherlock looked terrible. His face was nearly white, his arm was wrapped around his chest, and he was breathing far too heavily. A black bruise cut across his right eye while thick blue dots littered his nose.

“Mugged,” Sherlock breathed. “They took my key. I’m sorry.”

He fell over, and Mycroft caught him just before his head hit the side of the door.

“Fuck,” he whispered, “is it anything more than the black eye and nose?”

Shaking his head feverishly, Sherlock attempted to straighten himself up and ended up tumbling into the living room instead.

“Took the key,” Sherlock said again. “What if they rob us?”

“I really don’t think they will,” Mycroft said. “They’d have to check every flat in London.”

“Took my wallet. My money. My I.D.”

“Oh.

His hand slipped around Sherlock’s waist, and he turned him around. His brother was shaking.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” He asked quietly.

As he let go of him Sherlock sank into the sofa, where he lay flat on his stomach.

“Mycroffftttt!” Sherlock groaned.

His eyes narrowed. He recognised that tone.

“Are you drunk” He shot. Sherlock only huffed in response. “Sherlock!”

He knew his brother was of age, but he still had a problem with the thought of him coming home drunk.

“Tell me what happened with the muggers,” Mycroft suggested. “We need to tell the police.”

He decided to leave out the part where “the police” was actually in his bedroom.

“No!”

Suddenly Sherlock flipped around, and when he saw how wild and red his eyes were Mycroft realised this was much worse than a few lagers too many.

“You’re high,” he whispered. Sherlock didn’t protest. “Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_ , you’re high. You’re high and you got mugged.”

“They stole my wallet!” Sherlock wined.

“You’re high!” Mycroft hissed, grabbing his arms. Forcing his short sleeves up, Mycroft revealed a series of thick red dots and white scars. “Oh shit. Oh Sherlock.”

Wide brown orbs gazed up at him, and Mycroft was at a loss of what to do. Part of him wanted to scream, wanted to hit and kick and shake Sherlock until he came to his senses. Instead he sank down on the sofa next to him and took his arm in his own hand. Thumb and forefinger running across the scars, Mycroft tried to fight the urge to become sick.

“What did you do?” Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes danced around the room. He just looked so scared that his own heart tore in two.

“Please don’t be angry.”

His voice was so soft, so desperate, that Mycroft couldn’t find it in himself to yell. It was only then that he remembered the copper in his bedroom, and he began to panic.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Mycroft said.

“I am in bed.”

He remembered Sherlock had been sleeping on the sofa, and a tired sigh escaped him.

“I’ll get you some water,” he offered.

Stumbling into the kitchen, Mycroft drew in a few calming breaths and tried to not panic.

_What the fuck am I supposed to do?_

His hands were shaking as he poured a glass of water and carried it back over to Sherlock. The younger man was trembling when he arrived back at the sofa, and he remained silent as he handed him the water.

“I’m cold,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m c-cold. I…Mycroft I…I’m so cold.’

He draped the blanket over Sherlock without protest.

“It’s alright, love,” he sighed.

Mycroft sank down into the part of the sofa not covered by Sherlock’s thin frame.

“Where did you get the drugs?” He demanded.

Sherlock’s vacant eyes swirled around the room.

“Old mate,” Sherlock explained. “From uni. We met…I just thought he wanted to catch up. He had…he just said it was a little bit. I…god, I’m so sorry Mye. I feel…I might…”

Without warning, Sherlock leaned over the sofa and emptied his stomach onto the floor. He spat up and coughed until he was choking on air, and Mycroft had no choice but to offer a comforting pat against his lower back. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throttle him. But he knew that right now, all Sherlock needed was to get better.

“How much?” He asked softly.

Sherlock only moaned.

 _I’m in over my head,_ he worried. _Maybe I do need Greg._

“Let’s get you to the loo,” Mycroft said.

Throwing one hand around his adopted brother’s waist and one around his back, Mycroft moistened him to his feet and began dragging him to the single loo that belonged to the flat. It was only then that he realised Sherlock, too, smelled of cigarette smoke. His hair reeked of smoke, and his torn clothes smelled of it too. Nonetheless, he dragged Sherlock into the loo and let him fall against the toilet rim. Sherlock immediately threw up again, and Mycroft began running warm water against a hand towel.

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, dragging a trembling hand across his face. “I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t answer.

Sherlock threw up again.

“I’ll get some more water,” he offered, “just stay here, alright? I’m just a shout away.”

A moan replied to him as he rushed out of the room and into his bedroom. His body nearly broke when he saw Greg laying there, fully naked and stroking his cock.

“Fuck,” Greg whispered, “please tell me they went away.”

“It was Sherlock.” He rushed around, picking up a hand towel from the floor. “Greg…I need your help.”

His lover sat up straight, and for the first time ever Mycroft saw him as a human rather than a…a, well, someone to fuck. A hand shot out to his wrist, and Mycroft didn’t fight the warm touch.

“You have to swear that you won’t tell,” Mycroft continued, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“What happened?”

Hand in hand, the two gazed at each other, Mycroft begging for his lover’s trust.

“Sherlock’s been mugged,” he admitted.

“Shit.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. He almost looked amusing, with a copper’s concern on his face and his cock dangling from his naked body. “Is he okay? Did he report it?”

“He’s also high.”

A silent filled the room. The air became stiff, and he almost felt like someone was choking him.

“What did he take?” Greg’s voice was dark and serious, more serious than he had ever heard.

Somehow, it was that seriousness that made Mycroft more nervous than ever. He and Sherlock had a long conversation after he got kicked out of school about drugs. Sherlock admitted that he had been pressured into trying pills, then cocaine, and his younger sibling promised he would never tried it again. Since Sherlock had mainly stayed around the flat. To Mycroft’s knowledge, he spent his days playing violin on the street corner and somehow came up with just as much money as their office secretaries made.

And somehow, he had never wondered where that money went.

_I’ve completely failed at being a guardian._

“Cocaine,” he whispered, “please don’t arrest him.”

Greg just gazed up at him, as though he pitied him.

“Mycroft this is bad,” Greg said quietly. “Where did he get the drugs from?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much did he take?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know!”

“How can you not know?”

“I don’t know!” He exclaimed.

They glared at each other, and Mycroft let the rise and fall of his chest calm him for a moment. Greg must have felt sorry for him because suddenly their hands were touching, squeezing, and Mycroft realised the copper wasn’t angry with him.

“Look, the important thing is to help him through this,” Greg said. “You can interrogate him when he’s well. For now you’ve got to find out how much he took. In the morning you can determine where he got it from. Don’t scare him away.”

Mycroft nodded, but inside he felt sick.

“I can’t believe this happened again,” he said, hands clenching into fists. “I can’t believe I let it happen!”

“You didn’t!” Greg exclaimed. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly!”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Greg said. He placed a hand on his shoulder, and Mycroft softened a bit. “It will be okay. You can shout at him in the morning. Right now the best thing you can do is be with him. If you push him away he will go away.”

He nodded again, though he couldn’t find it in his heart to believe Greg. Mycroft turned around to flee the room, but a hand stopped him.

“Make sure he drinks a lot of water,” Greg explained. “Keep him hydrated. Try to find out how much he took.”

After detouring to the kitchen for some more water, Mycroft gently knocked on the bathroom door. The room smelled of sick. Sherlock was even paler now, with his sweaty curls sticking to his forehead.

 “I’m sorry,” Sherlock coughed when he was done. “I’m sorry Mycroft.”

He reached for the water when he was offered it. Mycroft sank to the floor next to him and re-arranged the blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Let me see your arm.”

With a small moan, Sherlock shifted so that Mycroft could take his arm in his hand. He pushed Sherlock’s jumper up his arm to reveal a series of angry red track marks. Fingerprints decorated his wrist where the muggers had grabbed him, and his brother flinched violently when he gently scraped his finger across the bruises.

“How much?” He asked, dreading the answer.

“I’m not sure.”

The very answer he dreaded.

“Is he going to arrest me?” Sherlock asked, eyes filled with fear. Mycroft looked around, stunned that he knew. A small smile fell across his brother’s face as he explained: “You smell like cigarettes. You smell like him.”

A dazed look fell over Sherlock’s face, and Mycroft felt ill again as he remembered why he would remember what Greg smelled like. Ever since that night he felt guilty, like he had ruined Sherlock somehow. Sherlock was too young to understand what happened, and he was far too inexperienced to be pushed into a situation like that. At times he wondered if Sherlock thought less of him for it.

And now here they were. The drugs, again. It was like things were constantly going downhill.

“He’s in my room,” Mycroft admitted. “I don’t know what he’ll do. I can’t ask him not to.”

Sherlock nodded and turned away to throw up again. He placed a hand at the small of Sherlock’s back and winced as he felt how skinny his brother had become. How had he not noticed how much weight the kid was losing?

“One of your credit cards was in the wallet,” Sherlock said. He broke out into a series of gasps and coughs as he sat back on his knees. Mycroft opened his mouth to yell, on instinct, but stopped himself. “I’m sorry. I just wanted…I wanted.”

He was sick again before he could reply. He broke away from the toilet moaning, and it was then that it really hit him how long of a night it was going to be.

“Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” Mycroft offered.

“No!”

Sherlock shook his head feverishly.

“Maybe you overdosed-“

“I didn’t! I just…I…my head.”

Suddenly he grabbed his forehead and fell back against the wall. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, Sherlock sank to the floor and curled into a ball. His body burst into violent shakes, and for a moment Mycroft stared, at a loss.

“I’ll get you some more water,” he offered quietly.

But instead of going to the kitchen he slipped back into his bedroom. Greg was dressed, and somehow the sight of him tying his shoes made Mycroft feel even worse.

“How is he doing?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shrugged.

“He asked me if you’re going to arrest him,” he admitted.

A spark flickered in Greg’s eyes, and panic settled in his stomach. He began to worry that maybe Greg _was_ going to arrest him. Maybe that’s why he got dressed.

“He needs to report the mugging,” Greg said, “but drugs isn’t really my division. I should call it in, but I can offer him a deal.”

Relief rushed in over the panic, but still he replied:

“You shouldn’t make an exception for him.”

Greg’s hand fell on his shoulder and squeezed him lightly. Suddenly he was pulled into his lover, and warm breath tickled his ear.

“You’re fucking a copper, love,” pulling away, Greg smiled. “Do you have any idea what will happen to him if I arrest him? Sherlock is…well, he seems to be a bit troubled. He’s going through something, Mye. Let me talk to him. If he can give me information on who gave him the drugs and on any other drug activity he knows, it will really help him.”

Gentle lips found his own, and he allowed himself a moment of distraction to enjoy the kiss. The warmth of the kiss and the touch of the hand on his shoulder calmed him down a bit, and he had never been more grateful to have someone else there.

“I feel like I’m losing him,” he blurted out as soon as their lips parted.

“Don’t go through this alone,” Greg whispered. “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but trust me when I say I’ve seen this, time and time again. Let me help you. Let me help Sherlock. Can I see him?”

“Maybe in the morning?” He tried.

Nodding, Greg replied.

“That’s fair. Does that mean I get to stay the night?”

A grin escaped him and ran across his lips before he could stop it.

“If you really want to,” Mycroft offered. “I would be grateful.”

Greg embraced him in a quick hug and murmured into his ear:

"Everything's going to be okay."

Closing his eyes, Mycroft didn't dare admit out loud how long he had waited for someone to say those words to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you think.


End file.
